Weekend Games
by jugglequeen
Summary: Tony and Angela are in St. Louis for an Old Timers game of the Cardinals. We learn a bit more about Angela's state of mind than what the original show told us. And we get to see what happened between their kiss at the breakfast buffet in St. Louis and the two of them dancing back home in Fairfield.
1. My Tony

**Author's Note:**

Thanks to two of my fanfic friends for their input to this story. Thanks to stayathomemum for suggesting that I should write a story in first person and present tense, and many, many, many thanks to VioletStella for proofreading again and again and again. I'm German and therefore unfamiliar with the finer points of baseball, but have developed into quite an expert when it comes to foul balls, double play, and strikeouts thanks to her baseball expertise.

Enjoy Angela's POV, and before anyone asks, there's going to be a sequel from Tony's POV once this story is finished.

Needless to say that reviews and comments are welcome and highly appreciated.

* * *

 **WEEKEND GAMES**

 **My Tony**

"Go, Tony!" I shout from where I'm sitting. He looks good in his white baseball uniform with the red logo saying 'Cardinals' on his chest. It's still immaculate, no dirty spots, no wrinkles. I'm sure it won't remain like this for long. Tony's a very ambitious athlete, competitive and enthusiastic. I can practically see how his whole body is full of energy, his excitement and anticipation emanating from every pore.

We're spending the weekend in St. Louis, the city Tony played baseball in for so long. He was invited to an Old Timers' game and asked me to come along. I've never seen him play ball professionally before, and I guess it's important to him to show me what he's been really successful at. He never was a star player with a million-dollar contract, never made it to an All-Star Game, but he was a regular in the starting line up and well-known within the baseball community. He's longing for my admiration and I'm more than willing to give it to him.

Although this weekend didn't start out so well. We not only ran into some of his fellow players upon our arrival at the hotel, but also into a busty redhead, who seems to have been the team's groupie for ages; at least since the time Tony was a player. They obviously share a history together, an R rated history. Somehow, Tony managed to persuade me to pretend we're newlyweds. He said he wanted to keep sexy Betty away from him for the sake of a cozy weekend with me, but then I caught him kissing her. Well, they were rather tongue-wrestling than kissing. He's supposed to kiss me like that since I am his wife. I'm not really his wife, I know, but somehow I thought - or hoped - he would not only want to play a charade in front of the others but also internalise the role of my husband when we were alone.

It's not the first time we've played husband and wife. We already did on Samantha's 13th birthday, shortly after they had moved in. Her new friends stayed over for a slumber party and the poor girl felt inferior because her father was a housekeeper whereas the other girls' fathers were doctors, lawyers, or bankers. So she told them that Tony owned the house, was president of an advertising agency and married to me. I played along then like I'm playing along now, only then it was a simple little favor I did Tony and Samantha. Now it's more; much more. Being far away from the complicated situation at home, with the kids we care for and a business contract which defines our relationship, I hoped we would be freer to stand by our feelings for each other. The way he called me 'Darling' sounded so real that I thought it was more than just a pretense.

Then I caught him dancing with Betty, very erotically and very much the center of attention with half the team cheering them on. They kissed right there on the dance floor. I felt used and taken for a fool. He humiliated me in front of his buddies and in front of that redhead who doesn't respect the state of holy matrimony one bit. So I played with the idea of leaving right away. I don't know what made me call Mother to let her know I'd be coming home. Maybe I was looking for someone who would listen to me venting and later on reinforce my decision. Anyway, I should've known better, of course, she did neither of the two but talked me out of leaving instead. As my voice of reason whenever I need her, she reminded me that Tony was my best friend, that I should gulp down my pride and stay to watch him play ball.

Now I'm glad that I listened to her. I met him at the breakfast buffet this morning to tell him I would stay and watch the game. The boyish joy in his eyes showed me I was doing the right thing. And then Betty herself confirmed that he hadn't spent the night with her but had slept on the couch in the room of one of his teammates. I couldn't help but kiss him. Really kiss him, not smooch him on the mouth like before, when Mike's wife Pam asked us to make up with a kiss. He had remained faithful to his 'wife' after all. He had resisted Betty and her feminine charms, her very tantalizing and ample charms. He hadn't cheated on me. And although I am not really his wife, I felt like I was at that moment. I felt the relief of a woman who found out that the man she secretly adores didn't jump into someone else's bed just because he couldn't share hers. Or like Mother put it so aptly on the phone: I was overwhelmed that Tony didn't get his baked goods at another bake shop just because I wasn't sharing my loaf with him.

The irony behind all this is that I could indeed imagine sharing my bread with Tony...I mean bed! Mother and her disconcerting metaphors. My feelings for him have changed from being his boss; he's definitely not just my housekeeper anymore.

But what exactly is he?

A Friend? Most certainly more than that.  
Best friend? Yes, but that's only one facet of what he is to me.  
Most important man in my life? Positively.

Tony's become a confidant, someone I can trust blindly and rely on completely. Someone I want to share my life with. And my bed.

I haven't really ventured to elaborate on the idea yet though. It's too risky. Should I tell him I love him or should I negate my feelings? What if I end up finding out that his feelings aren't as strong as mine? That for him things are perfect the way they are? How would I be able to go on living under the same roof with him? I'm not unhappy myself with how things are at the moment; much to the contrary, yet I wish for more. But I also fear ending up with less, so I prefer to have our relationship in a state of flux with the option of romance waiting for me somewhere at the horizon.

That's why this game of playing a married couple means so much more to me than five years ago when I was simply Tony's boss. This game is much more authentic, it seems so real. I actually feel like a player's wife, being seated in the players' box with Pam to my left. She's cheering for her husband as well, jumping up and down and clapping her hands.

Unintentionally, I see someone else jumping up and down: Betty. She is near the dugout and of course, she has a special seat being the Cards' #1 'good luck charm' for like forever. I wonder how many of the players she's been with. I tear my eyes away from her and bring them back to the game.

The management of the St. Louis Cardinals have not only invited their Old Timers to this game but a number of former rivals who together build the mixed opposing team. All earnings will be donated to a good cause, so it could be considered a friendly game. But all the players on the field have been professional athletes, so all of them take the whole thing quite seriously.

It's the second inning now, with no score in the first. Tony is at his regular berth as a professional player, second base. I'm still not familiar with all the rules although Tony must've explained them to me a hundred times. All I see is a man throwing a ball, another man trying to hit it with his bat, and a third pitiable man crouching behind him. I recognize the umpire, but I don't understand his calls, so I align my shouting or booing with Pam and the other spectators.

We see the first batter walk to first base after a series of lousy pitches. The second batter swings at the first pitch and hits, throws his bat away, and starts running toward first base. The ball flies in Tony's direction but is out of his reach to catch. One of his teammates in the outfield picks the ball up and tosses it to Tony, who catches it easily, touches his base to take the runner coming from first out long before he's anywhere near second base. Then, only a split-second later, he throws the ball with rocket-like speed to the player at first base, who catches it with one foot on the bag as to the manner born, welcoming the runner to his base with a smile on his face.

"Two outs!" Pam rejoices. She elbows me in the side. "Good play by our hubbies, don't you think?"

Only just now I realize that Mike plays first base.

"Oh, yes."

"I'm so proud of Mikey! He works out all the time, tries to keep himself in good shape. Just like Tony, huh? What does he do as a workout?"

'Lift furniture and move refrigerators,' I almost say but bite my tongue fast enough. "He runs, shoots hoops, plays a game of tennis once in a while. And he's built his very own muscle factory in our garage."

"He's aged pretty well, I must say. You've grabbed yourself some guy, Angela!"

I flinch at the words because they are the same Betty used, only that her undertone revealed that she knew sides of this 'guy' he's been concealing from me. But Pam's remark is completely innocent. She just wants to say something nice about my husband, so I reply politely, "Yes, I know."

Being involved in our conversation, we miss the last batter who's been struck out by the Cards' pitcher. It's the bottom of the inning now and Tony's team is up to bat.

Tony is the third batter up to the plate; the first is out, the second, whom I recognize as Dave, made it to first base. I look at Tony, how he waits for the ball, the bat up high in the air above his right shoulder, his knees slightly bent, his muscles strained and his eyes glued on the ball. I remember the time he tried to teach me bat. It was a complete disaster. The only sport I'm good at is miniature golf. I played volleyball fairly well in college, but baseball definitely is not my sport. Tony's baseball lesson ended in a fight between us because I drove him crazy with my incompetence. Eventually, Tony's former teammate and archrival Josh taught me how to bat. He stood very close behind me with his left hand on my hip, then he nudged me with his pelvis in order to make me follow the ball after hitting. I teased Tony that Josh was a better instructor, but secretly I wished for Tony to stand behind me and nudge me with his pelvis. Right now, I'd like to be the one standing behind him, nudging him with my pelvis.

Did I just think that? What's the matter with me? This whole situation with us pretending to be married and sharing a hotel suite is obviously going to my head.

Whack!

That sounded good even to my untrained ears. The crowd goes wild as the ball flies across the infield, continuing to pass the outfielders, who were playing close in due to their 'Old Timer' status: they stumble over each other as they try to pick up the ball and recover so slowly that Dave has enough time to reach for the next base. Tony also starts running, dropping his bat on the way. Dave makes it to second base and Tony to first. He pulls off his gloves and crams them into his pocket, waiting for the next player to bat.

The next batter of the Cards I don't know, and neither does Pam. But he's good. He hits a ground ball into the area between first and second base. It's bouncing its way far enough for the outfielders who also live up to the name 'Old Timer' - Tony and Dave make it to second and third safely.

"Bases loaded," I murmur. One of the few technical terms I've memorized.

"Yeah. Next one is Butthead," Pam tells me.

"What's his real name?" I want to know.

"I've no idea! Mike only calls him Butthead, and he doesn't seem to mind."

So we're cheering for Butthead. He's a left-hander and not as supple as Tony. He misses the first ball, chooses to not swing at the second which is then called a strike by the umpire. So only one more strike and he will be out, bringing the Cards down to their last out for the inning and possibly stranding three men on base. Even I am excited because if Butthead hits the next pitch well enough at least the runner on third could score, that much I know about baseball.

But Butthead isn't doing us the favor of hitting the next pitch well. He hits it, but it's a foul ball which goes way out the side boundaries. Then another foul happens, and another one. I bite my nails. Because I don't watch regularly, I'm not used to these foul balls protracting the game. Every time the ball leaves Butthead's bat I want to scream 'Run, Tony!' but because Pam beside me only moans I keep my mouth shut. I don't want to reveal that I'm quite ignorant when it comes to the finer points of baseball.

I'm quite far away from Tony, but I can see how determined he is to score a run. His whole demeanor tells me, and I know him well, of course. I know how he hates to lose. He's even a worse loser than I am, and I'm not very good at it either. I think, the ultimate will to win is deeply rooted within ambitious people like ourselves. Yes, that is something we have in common, despite the many differences that characterize our relationship.

The entire crowd seems to hold its breath now, the stadium has fallen quiet. I'm holding my breath, too, and Pam is squeezing my arm.

Then another ball - Is it the eighth or ninth? - leaves the pitcher's hand and seems to fly in slow motion, although I'm pretty sure that a lot of power has been put into it. Butthead swings, and he hits. It's not a perfect hit, but solid. Dave starts running, Tony starts running, the player on first base I don't know the name of starts running, and Butthead also starts running. The outfielders of the opposing team start running as well, none of them able to catch the ball in the air as it sails above them, just falling short of a home run. The center fielder grabs the ball and throws it to second base to open the game of cat and mouse between the baserunners and the defending team.

I don't realize that Butthead makes it safely to first base, nor that Dave makes it home to score a run. I don't get how the player with no name gets tagged out. All I see is Tony, how he's dashing toward third base. Then the second baseman drops the ball - another 'Old Timer' worthy of his name - and the coach at third base signals Tony with wild gestures to run on. So after having stepped deliberately on the cushion of third at full speed, he's now trying to reach home plate no matter what. From the corner of my eye, I can see the ball coming and the catcher reaching out for it with his glove. He has one foot on home plate and looks more than determined to tag Tony out. I know exactly what will happen and the very next second Tony takes off, stretches his arms and jumps toward home plate. The last few inches he slides on his stomach just like I knew he would.

For a moment, the world seems to have come to a halt. It's impossible to tell what happened first: did the catcher tag Tony with the ball or did Tony's hands touch home plate? Hundreds of pairs of eyes are alert, staring at the umpire and waiting for his call. Then he spreads his arms and yells, "Safe!" and the whole stadium screams. The whole stadium but me. I am simply amazed.

Then Pam nudges me and yells at me, "Angie! Your Tony really is a hell of a guy!" She embraces me, making me jump up and down with her again.

My Tony!

Yes, he sure is a hell of guy! My heart starts pounding at the notion that so many people think he's 'my' Tony. Well, he is mine as long as this weekend lasts. At least, I can pretend he is.


	2. Number Three

**Number Three**

The Cards win 6-2 in the end. Although it wasn't a professional game, every Old Timer played as if it was. They are all former jocks and it seems to be deeply rooted in them to always compete for the victory. So they celebrate as if they won the World Series. They are all so cute, like little kids who won a game of Uno. One is especially cute in my eyes.

We, the players' wives and girlfriends, are waiting in the locker room for our successful spouses to return. As this is a special occasion and rather a fun event than a serious game, the players were allowed to invite their family and friends into their sanctuary. Normally, women are not welcome in here - not even female journalists, if they ever existed.

"Oh boy, Harvey will be so full of adrenaline, I'm sure he wants to get it out of his system before tonight's banquet," a sturdy brunette lets us all know.

"Just like my Pedro. I conceived three of our four children after a Cards' victory," a petite woman with a Spanish accent throws in and winks at me. "What about your children, Angie?"

"Well, Tony and I don't have any children together. Samantha and Jonathan are from our previous marriages," I explain.

Pam elbows me. "Want some more?"

Do I want some more?

I haven't really thought about it lately. I haven't seriously dated someone since Geoffrey, and without having an appropriate co-parent at my side, considering it is pointless. I raised Jonathan without any help from his father, I'm not really keen on doing it again. I remember the time Tony and I babysat Clint for Norman and Libby. It was wonderful to have a baby in the house, and we were a good team. Tony played the motherly part, whereas I, of course, only found time to care for him after work. We had a good laugh about that notwithstanding our reversed roles they are still so stereotype.

Tony is a wonderful father. In many ways, his relationship to Sam reminds me of the one I had with my own father. He's strict and sets high standards but most of all he wants to protect his daughter. He assures her of his love whenever and wherever possible and backs her up when need be. He has his problems letting her grow up; he'd prefer if she stayed his little girl forever. I can't blame him for that. I also call Jonathan 'my little baby' once in a while and get little thanks for it. Tony and I seem to be quite the same in dreading the day our children will finally cut the cord.

So, do I want another baby? Yes, I guess I do.

The other women and I hear our Old Timers coming down the hallway, approaching the locker room. They roar and sing and laugh. Winning a baseball game seems to be a very pleasing and stimulating experience.

The door opens and the proud winners pour into the little locker room, grown men who are looking for their spouses' admiration for having won a charity game. The other women are used to it and willing to caress their husbands' egos with telling them how well they played and how proud they are. To me, this is all new. I picture Betty praising Tony's game, how she beams at him telling him she adores strong and victorious men. And I picture Tony, how he's flattered and tempted to show her more of his masculinity. I swallow hard. I don't want Betty to be the woman who gives him what he needs, I want to be that woman.

I haven't followed this last thought completely when Tony comes to me in a cheerful mood. His eyes are sparkling and his dirty face is shining with childish pride.

"We won, Angela!"

"I know. I was there," I say with a smile.

"Did you see how I scored that run?"

"Yes, I saw. You were amazing Tony!"

"You think?"

"Absolutely. I'm very proud of you."

This conjures a smile on his face. Men are so easy! Tell them you, the little weak woman, admire their strength and they are like butter in your hands. I didn't know I had this power over Tony, though. But I guess that's why he asked me to come with him in the first place. He's seen me being successful in my profession many times; he's also seen me having been fired or losing an account, but that's another story. His professional career was over before we even met. He thinks he's never had a chance to impress me, although I often tell him how much I appreciate what he's doing for me, that I would never be so successful wihout him.

And he does impress me, it isn't something I just say to make him happy. He's so organised and manages the household so magnificently. He cooks like a starred chef and still finds time to coach Sam's softball team or check Jonathan's homework. It's just that understandably having cleared the attic or vacuumed the living room isn't giving him the satisfaction he got from winning a professional ballgame. It sure won't be put in the paper the next day like a daring slide to home plate or a perfectly hit grand slam. The way he seeks my admiration and praise, like a little boy who jumps off the diving board to make his mother proud of him, touches me.

I figure that he probably considers to be playing in a different league than me - no pun intended - which in fact, he isn't; at least not in my eyes. I don't value people because of where they come from, I value them for where they want to go and for how much they make an effort to move on. And you can only admire Tony for how he rearranged his life twice: after Marie's death and after the abrupt end of his sports career. And the way he goes the extra mile to get a college degree also commands my respect. Instead of looking down on Tony, the people in our neighborhood should rather see him as a role model. I know some of them are judging me to have too close a relationship with him but I don't care. I'm glad Tony's become Jonathan's role model, especially because his father doesn't serve like one at all.

Tony and I look around and realize that the other players are getting their 'rewards'; we are the only ones not kissing. He grins uneasily and scratches his head. I decide to take this opportunity. I make a step toward him, lay my hands on his chest and place a soft kiss on his mouth. "My hero," I breathe.

I can see that he likes it, both the kiss as well as the worhsip, but he's also overwhelmed and doesn't know what to do next. Then Mike elbows him in the side, so hard that he stumbles toward me and we end up standing real close. "Winning is best with your wifey in the stands, isn't it?" Mike prompts Tony.

"It sure is," my 'husband' mumbles and puts his arms around me. For a moment we stare at each other and I'm drowing in his chocolate-brown eyes. His lips are approaching mine very slowly but finally they touch. And then he engages me in a more marital kiss than the one I just gave him. His lips cover my mouth completely. They are so soft and warm. This is heavenly! I hope this will turn into a French kiss.

We have French kissed only twice in the five years before we got here. Our first kiss was a French kiss, but we were both drunk so maybe it doesn't count. The other time, he kissed me in his van after he thought he needed to save me from the clutches of my former classmate 'Snake'. That was a wonderful kiss! I wished for him to continue but he left it at that single kiss. And then this morning, at the breakfast buffet, of course. That was an ardent kiss I gave him! I was so relieved Tony hadn't spent the night with Betty that I played my role as his bride better than I anticipated. So, if I leave the drunken kiss aside, this might become our French kiss #3.

What shall I do? Leave the decision to him? Wait whether he wants this to be a fake kiss, only playing along thus the others assume it's one between a husband and his wife? But nobody's watching us anyway. Maybe he's waiting for a sign from me? I mean, technically I'm still his boss, regardless that I play his darling wife. So maybe I should give him a hint.

All the other couples are quite occupied, nobody gets that we're somewhat awkward which eventually makes me decide to seize the initiative. He's still kissing me, but even shyer than when we were 13 and 11. I'm not sure whether our teenage kiss should be added to the list. It was the first grown-up kiss for both of us and it was nice, but we were kids far from knowing what a real French kiss feels like, so I guess it rather belongs to a list of childhood dares than to the one of French kisses. And actually, I am at a point where I don't care which list to put it on. The only thing I can think of is that it lasted 57 seconds and I want this one now to last at least as long.

I close my eyes, tilt my head, and pull him closer. Hmmm, his body feels good so close to mine. He's sweaty and still hot from the physical exertion. The salty taste on his upper lip is enriched with some sand grains from the baseball field. What a mixture! I've never kissed such a dirty and sweaty man before and I'm surprised how much it's turning me on. I want more of this - of him - so I part my lips a little and seek entrance into his mouth with the tip of my tongue. I'm relieved that I'm welcome. My whole life, I've been afraid of rejection, but Tony isn't rejecting me; he invites me in and offers me to stay. And sooner than we realize, we find ourselves in a complete French kiss which definitely qualifies to be put on the list as #3!

He's a terrific kisser. Forceful, yet gentle. Claiming, yet also giving. And tender, oh yes, so very tender. Our tongues are caressing each other carefully and we discover the other's mouth with curiousity. We've come a long way since summer camp and I think we already set a new record. Tony and I have lost our sense of time because we're both so deeply involved but Bruce Weinberger would be staring at his stop watch in awe if he were here now, I'm sure.

Then we hear Butthead murmur, "Batman truly upholds his reputation, I must say!" He's standing right beside us. "Get a room, Micelli!"

"Leave them alone, Butthead," Pam now intervenes, "they're newlyweds, for heaven's sake!"

We pull apart anyway. Tony grins wryly and I clear my throat.

Suddenly, we hear Coach Forrester yell through the locker room, "Tony, here's a guy from the local newspaper who wants to talk to you." He's beckoning over the man I just French-kissed.

"Uh, o-okay." Tony looks at me, uncertain. "Would...you excuse me for a minute?"

"Sure. Go and tell that journalist everything about your impressive slide to home plate," I say with a smile.

Usually, I'm not showing my affection in public. I'm a very private person, rather introverted and shy. Most people think I'm a cold fish, but that's not true. I can be passionate and hot-blooded. You can ask Michael if you don't believe me. Of the many problems we had in our marriage, sex didn't belong to them. Maybe I'm not the most experienced lover but I dedicate myself to a man when I'm in love. Only that most men I met since I'm divorced didn't know how to awaken the daring side in me.

I guess Tony has had his share of women having been a teenage Italian in Brooklyn and a well-shaped jock touring the country. But as far as I can tell, he was truly in love only once, with Marie, like Michael was the only man I ever truly loved. So we're on equal terms here.

Is he longing for a serious relationship as much as I do? I've been a single working mother for four years now. I have been dating, but none of my relationships were profound enough to be turned into a long-running partnership. Geoffrey, the man Tony introduced me to at Paul and Isabelle's wedding, wanted to marry me, but he couldn't give me what I was looking for in a relationship: devotion, reliability, trust, true love, and yes, desire. Geoffrey gave me devotion and reliability, he loved me truly and desired me, but all of that was one-sided only. Although I tried, I never really fell in love with him. I liked him, I liked him a lot, and I particularly liked the way he courted me, but I couldn't love him back the way he deserved. Tony was the one who finally made me see it.

Tony hasn't seriously been with someone either since he lives in my house. He dated a few women, and I guess he slept with some of them, but it never lasted long. Frankie, a Brooklyn girl he knew since his youth, became serious. She proposed to him and for a moment I thought I'd lose him. My feelings left me so confused that I ended up in my shrink's office confessing to her that I love him. Boy, was I surprised when I heard myself say it out loud. But I also was relieved. Something I had bottled up a long time was finally out in the open. Not that much in the open that I was able to tell Tony, although I would've liked to, but that much that I was honest with myself. From that moment on I knew that I wanted to be with him; not right away, but some day. I don't even want to think about what it would make me feel if he ever dated a woman seriously; someone younger than me, more kindred, maybe someone he met at college.

I don't know if a relationship between Tony and me would be doomed to fail given the set-up we're coming from. He also feels that there is something between us, definitely. I'm more to him than his employer, much more. I know since our second anniversary. He might've told me if his appendix hadn't had other plans for us that night. We ended up at a hospital with Tony being sedated for the upcoming appendectomy. He said he loved me when they wheeled him out of the room. We've never resolved whether he had really meant it or whether it had only been confused talk under the anesthetic; not until this very day.

Maybe it's time to bring that question back on the table. Maybe it's time to finally talk about whether we should give romance a chance. Playing this little charade of Mr. and Mrs. Micelli might bring us into the right mood.

I have to stop musing because Coach Forrester is bellowing through the room once again. "Okay Old Timers, you all did a great job out there today! I'm proud of you! We played them into the ground and took revenge for that humiliating loss against some of them in nineteen-seventy-hmfff." We all laugh because of his mumbling the year away. "Now I want all of you get a shower and spiff yourselves up for our closing banquet. Don't put me to shame, Boys! I want to see all of you shaved, combed, and well-dressed, honoring the beautiful ladies you brought along!"

I struggle to not chuckle at his command. I'm sure it wasn't always easy to keep a bunch of juvenile effervescent ballplayers under control but the way he's telling grown-up men how to behave amuses me. I wish I could talk to my staff like this sometimes.

Tony joins me again. "You heard what the Coach said. I'm supposed to take a shower and change into a tux."

I smile at the idea of seeing him in a tux again. First time was when I asked him to serve as an escort of one of my clients, a stunningly beautiful French woman. It had been a stupid idea from the outset, and I'm glad I got there right in time to tell Tony that I'd rather lose a million-dollar account than degrade him, but I have to admit that he looked amazing in his tuxedo. So I'm looking forward to seeing him dressed-up like that again, especially because this time he will be dressed up for me.

The first couples are leaving the locker room. Most of them tightly entangled or at least holding hands. What that brunette said earlier, about getting the adrenaline out of her husband's system before the banquet, comes to my mind, and it leaves me a bit anxious. Tony and I share a hotel suite after all. We booked two single rooms before we got here but had to attribute it to a misunderstanding when we suddenly claimed to be newlywed. So we ended up in the honeymoon suite with only one bathroom and one bed, which of course makes sense given the designated main purpose of a honeymoon suite. We haven't made any plans yet on how to deal with the situation, but I guess we have to come up with some ideas soon, otherwise things might get out of hand after that kiss we just shared.

"After you, Angela," Tony prompts me to leave. When I pass in front of him, he puts his hand on my back to guide me out into the hallway. Surprisingly, I shiver at his touch.

I hope he has an idea about how to cope with our accommodation situation appropriately. Well, I'm going to find out very soon.


	3. Waterdrops

**Waterdrops**

"Would you mind if I went into the bathroom first? I'm all sweaty and dirty. I'll just have a quick shower and shave, then it'll be all yours for as long as you want. I can put my clothes on in the bedroom."

So he has given it some thought. Sounds like a fair solution to our dilemma. "Don't forget to comb your hair," I can't help tease him.

"Very funny, Angela!"

"Were you really this sloppy when you were pros that the Coach needed to remind of such basics?"

"Oh, he reminded us of much more. He chaperoned us like a mother hen."

"Like what?" I try to imitate the Coach's bellowing, "Brush your teeth!"

I grin, but only until Tony does an impersonation of his coach, himself, and his is much better than mine. "No, rather 'Pack some condoms!'"

The chuckle gets stuck in my throat.

"Don't look at me like that! We were young and uncommitted!"

"And once you were married?"

"Ey-oh, Angela, who do you think I am?" He stares at me, almost piercing through me with his dark eyes. "I never - never! - cheated on Marie!"

I smile. "I thought so. But it's good to know anyway. As your mock wife, I mean."

"I didn't cheat on my wedded wife, and I didn't cheat on my mock wife either. I'm an honorable man!"

"Yes, I know you are."

"And don't you ever forget!"

"I won't," I promise ruefully. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"It's okay. It's a legitimate question for a wife, I guess, whether she's truly wedded or just pretending." He grins and grabs his vanity bag. "Do you need to go to the bathroom before I'm occupying it?"

I don't, so I tell him to go ahead.

He closes the door behind him and soon after that I hear the water running. A titillating image appears on my mental cinema screen: Tony under the shower, naked, lathering his muscular body. I try to distract my imagination with turning on the tv, but then Tony starts singing 'Volare', one of his favorite Italian tunes.

I've heard him sing under the shower before. Not because we shared a hotel suite, but because he doesn't have an ensuite bathroom like I do. He shares a bathroom with Sam and it adjoins to the upstairs hallway in our house. I pass it every morning on my way down to the kitchen, and sometimes, when he's been for a run before breakfast, I catch him singing under the shower. It has turned my mental cinema on quite a few times.

I'm flipping through the channels gazing at the tv screen when I suddenly hear Tony's muted voice from behind the bathroom door. "Angela? Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here, Tony. What's the matter?"

He opens the door a bit and pokes his head through the crack. "Could you ask housekeeping to get some towels up here?"

"There aren't any towels?"

"Uh, no. The chambermaid obviously forgot to put them on the shelf. I'm making a big mess here. The whole floor is covered with puddles."

"Hold on, I call the reception."

It doesn't take more than a few minutes until I hear a knock at the door. It's the same guy who showed us the room yesterday, the one who looks like Ronald Reagan. I tip him, then stride through the room to release Tony from his predicament.

The water is running again. I guess he's back under the shower because he was cold. And he started singing again, 'That's Amore' this time.

I knock cautiously and call him. "Tony?"

 _"When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie...that's amore."_

"Tony!" I shout now, knocking on the door with more determination but all for naught. He still doesn't hear me.

 _"When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine...that's amore_ _."_

"TO-NEE!" I've given up my reservation by now, banging with my entire hand so loudly I expect the people next door to raise a disturbance complaint.

Useless. Maybe his ears are full of water or he's too absorbed in the song. Whatever, he simply doesn't hear me. So I turn the knob and open the door slowly. I stick my head in and gasp; I totally forgot our honeymoon suite bathroom comes with one of those avant-garde peek-a-boo showers with translucent glass walls giving me an unobstructed view of what's behind them.

My heart skips a beat and my eyeballs threaten to fall out of their sockets - oh my, what a butt!

I've seen this butt in tuxedo pants, tight jeans, slacks, pajama bottoms, swimsuits, and running shorts, but never naked. I feel like a birthday girl who gets a premature look at her present. I know I should look away, but my eyes don't follow my brain's command, they rest on this breathtaking sight. If he turns around now, I'm going to drop dead instantly! If only I weren't stuck in the role of 'Miss Reasonable', always acting comme il faut, I could be more wolfish like my mother, or like...yeah, Betty! I'd pull off my clothes and join him. But of course, I'm as far away from doing such a crazy thing as a Cardinals fan is from rooting for the Mets. Instead, I tear my eyes away from Tony's posterior view, place the towels on the toilet seat, scream really loudly, "here are your towels, Tony!", and before he can turn around and catch me, I slip through the door back into the bedroom.

My pulse is still pounding when I let myself fall onto the sofa. I can't believe I ogled Tony's backside! I feel my cheeks flaming; I bet they're crimson red from embarrassment. But hey, it's only retributive justice, isn't it? He saw me getting out of the bathtub once, and he ogled my anterior view, not my derriere! He was frozen when he saw me in my birthday suit and apologized a thousand times. He swore to his mother's grave that he hadn't seen anything, which was a bare lie of course; he had seen everything. Everything! My legs, my stomach, my chest, my... Gawd, I can't even voice it!

What have I done? I secretly gaped at Tony! I have to admit I liked what I saw. His body looks like one of Michelangelo's divine marble statues, but honestly, I can't believe I drooled over him so unashamedly. Like one of those uptight, prudish women who freak out when they happen to watch the Chippendales. What I did was unseemly and indecent. Beyond excuse. I'm awful!

On the other hand, I saw his naked tushie, so what? It's not like I'm sixteen anymore and completely ignorant to the male physique.

But why do I have to fan myself and concentrate on getting my breathing back under control then? What did the players' wives say again about their husbands overflowing with adrenaline after a victory? Well, I think the level of adrenaline in my system is also at an unnatural high right now. What if Tony comes out of the bathroom and finds me so agitated and beside myself? How am I going to explain my condition to him?

The water stops running and I hear all kinds of sounds coming from the bathroom. The shower doors are opened and closed, the ones not made of milk glass, those doors which let me see what I saw! The razor is turned on and off, and a bottle of cologne is put back on the shelf. Then the bathroom door squeaks and Tony appears in the doorframe, and I gape again.

I expected him to be dressed at least in his underwear and a robe maybe, but instead he stands in front of me in nothing but a towel around his hips. And he hasn't combed his hair. It's still disheveled and wet. He comes toward me, quite close, puts his arms around me and asks in a hoarse voice, "Now, where were we? I mean before the Coach called me to talk to that stupid reporter who's never even heard of Tony Micelli before?"

I'm completely caught off-guard. "I-I d-don't remember," I stammer.

"But I do."

He grins at me, then leans in and kisses me again. Another one of those delicious, sweet kisses. Now is this supposed to be the continuation of kiss #3 or rather kiss #4? I don't care actually. I choose to simply savor the sensation. My hands are on his chest and my fingers are sliding across every muscle of his chiseled torso as if I was a blind woman reading braille. His butt appears in front of my mind's eye again, and I feel tempted to pull that towel away and let my hands explore this body part of his as well. But again, that's so unlike me that I quickly refrain from putting my wild daydreams into action.

"Like Mikey said, sharing a victory with your wife is the best."

"But we're only pretending, Tony," I'm stupid enough to remind him.

"Ah, I don't care right now. You're the closest thing to a wife I've got, and we have to practice a little, don't you think? If we want to play our roles perfectly at the banquet, I mean."

"Practise is good."

"Uh-hummm." He engages me in kiss #5. We spend some time kissing, we're necking actually. I lose track of kisses #6 and #7 and eventually give up counting. But when we stop, we're definitely at double digits.

"Oh, I'm dripping on you," he excuses himself.

"Your hair," I whisper, "it's still wet."

Another waterdrop lands on my nose and bursts with a splash. I squint my eyes and Tony laughs. He strokes his hair back with his hand and grins. He appears so earthy and physical, with his hairy chest, the tattoo on his upper arm, his impressive biceps, and sharp facial features. But his eyes are warm and his boyish smile so winsome.

"It's your turn to have a shower now. My hair alone won't do it, I guess. I put my tux on out here, so you can take your time."

"Okay."

"The shower is nice and hot. I'm not really used to transparent walls in the bathroom, though."

"Oh, yeah. The glass walls. I completely forgot all about them," I lie.

"Well, it's a bit like lathering yourself in a team shower. It doesn't give you real privacy, but I won't look, Angela, I promise."

I let out a distressed laugh.

"The banquet starts at 7, so you still have more than an hour."

"That should be enough," I say while I'm taking my dress out of the closet.

"Is that a new dress?" Tony knows my wardrobe better than I do.

"It is. I want to make an impression on your teammates."

"You make an impression no matter what you wear, Angela. You look beautiful in this dress." He points at me. I'm wearing one of my casual dresses which are less conservative than my business clothes. "If it were up to me you could leave it on but the dress code for the banquet is quite strict, I'm afraid."

"This simple dress wouldn't look good next to you in a tux, Tony. I need to change into something more sophisticated."

"You're going to look like a prom queen, I'm sure."

With a smile on my face, I take a few steps backward until I bump into the doorframe to the bathroom. I smile stupidly, then wave even more stupidly. After I shut the door I look at my reflection in the mirror and stick my tongue out. "Very sophisticated, Angela," I berate myself, "like a regular grown-up woman. As if you've never seen a naked man before."

I have. Not very many, but I've seen some. But Tony's body is exceptional, and he's so confident about it. Whereas I'm somewhat insecure about mine, although I lost all the excess pounds I used to carry around in my teenage years. My figure is okay, I guess. My stomach is flat and my thighs are toned. But my chest! I'm really dissatisfied with it because you wouldn't exactly call it ample. My mother is so curvaceous and I am so slimly built, I wished she'd given me some more of her physique...and of her guts when it comes to being flirtatious with men.

I sigh. I am what I am. The dress will do it. It's an elegant black strapless gown with a sweetheart neckline. It pushes what's there to push, and I have to admit that I like what it does to my bosom. I blow-dry my hair, then I entwine several strands and pin them up masterfully. My hairdresser showed me how to do it. The do looks nice, it accentuates my neck. I put on some diamond earrings. Not the huge ones Geoffrey gave me; they'd be a bit swanky. Michael gave me a pair on our first anniversary. It was the only one he didn't forget. They're tiny, as he wasn't making much money at the time, but they sparkle nicely and are more unpretentious compared to Geoffrey's. I brought my grandmother's necklace. It has the perfect length to let the pendant dangle right above my cleavage, and I must say that the corsage works perfectly at generating one. I mascara my lashes extra thoroughly and apply a trace of blush on my cheekbones.

What about perfume? I have an insanely expensive flacon of Chanel No. 5 in my vanity case, but I don't tolerate it very well. I'd love to put some behind my ears and at my cleavage, but I'm afraid I might develop a rash. Grandma Robinson's dangling white gold pendant won't be of any use if Tony's look rests more on the pustules on my skin than on the neckline of my dress. So, no perfume. My natural scent must do.

Okay, I'm done. I hope I'm going to fulfill Tony's expectations.

"I'm ready, Tony," I yell through the door, "Can I come out?"

"I'm all dressed," I hear him answer me.

So I open the door. I'm a bit nervous. This feels like a date. Everyone else will think that we've been on lots of dates being a married couple according to their understanding, but in fact, we haven't. If I don't count the pity date Tony was talked into once by Mother, this is our first. And I can't believe what I see when my look falls on him: not only does he look incredibly handsome, he also holds a single pink rose in his hands. He's so thoughtful.

"For you," he hands the flower over with the warmest smile I've ever seen on him.

"Thank you, that's very kind of you," I manage to say.

"Wow, Angela! You're beautiful. So beau-ti-ful. On a scale from one to ten, you're an eleven. What am I saying? A twelve!"

"That's very flattering," I reply shyly. I hoped he'd like the dress. "You look very spiffy yourself!" I straighten his dinner jacket and even his bowtie.

"We make an impressive pair."

"Yes, we do," I agree with him.

"So, may I offer you my arm, Mrs. Micelli?"

"You may."

I take my black clutch purse and my pink rose and link with my husband, my mock husband that is. I'm looking forward to the banquet, to some good food, a glass of superb wine, and hopefully a slow dance with Tony.

This is our last evening as a couple. Our weekend game will come to an end inevitably, and even more so I'm ready and willing to enjoy this evening to the fullest.


	4. The Rose

**The Rose**

We spend a wonderful evening. We're seated at a table together with Mike and Pam, Dave and his girlfriend Shirley, and Butthead, who's single, which doesn't surprise me at all. Coach Forrester holds a humorous speech and tells some funny anecdotes about the time the 'Old Timers' were still young. The buffet is a good mixture of both local as well as international dishes, topped by a huge variety of desserts.

When Tony serves me a plate with hors d'oeuvres, I can already see the other women frowning and throwing each other surprised looks. The main course I get myself, but then Tony insists on choosing the dessert for me.

"Wow, Angela," Pam says, "I'm impressed! You've educated your hubby well! Mikey would never wait on me. Quite the contrary, he'd expect me to serve him!"

"Honestly," Shirley chimes in, "I've never seen a man waiting on his wife without being told. As if he was your domestic, Angela." She thinks this is particularly funny and chuckles, but I choke over my last piece of cheesecake.

"Well, Tony knows better what I like than I do," I try to talk my way out.

After dinner, we dance. Tony's a wonderful dancer. He has a good sense of rhythm and he's good at leading. It's easy to follow him. I've always enjoyed when we danced; he holds me close, I cling to him, sometimes I put my head on his shoulder and he presses my hand to his heart. It's an innocuous opportunity to get physical and enjoy the other's nearness. And this is exactly what we're doing right now. The band is wonderful and plays the kind of music we both like. We dance quite a bit, then return to our table. Mike and Pam have already left.

"They're sans kids, you understand?" Butthead tells us and squints one eye that much that even the most slow-witted person would've gotten the hint. "I'm surprised you're still here."

"Dave and Shirley met some other people and won't honor us with their presence anymore," Tony says, "We can't leave you alone at the table now, can we?"

"Nah! I'm a big boy, and I spied a curvy brunette at the bar who gave me the eye earlier. I'm gonna keep her company, invite her for a drink or two, and see how the night is evolving." He winks at Tony. "Take your babe to the honeymoon suite, Batman, and don't worry about me!"

Butthead is too absorbed in his thoughts about the brunette at the bar to notice Tony's and my uneasiness. We haven't talked about the sleeping arrangements so far. Tony spent the last night at Butthead's room, so I had the suite to myself. Being the honeymoon suite it only has one bed, one big bed indeed, but no second bed, not even a sleeper sofa. Wedding night marital arguments are obviously unprovided for in St. Louis. We have to figure out how to handle the situation. I don't know whether Tony has a plan; I don't.

We want to stick to our role, though, so we excuse ourselves, wish Butthead a good night, and head toward our room. We run into the older couple who caught us fighting yesterday. The woman throws us an appraising look as if she doubts we'll stay in the same room for long. I guess we don't really give the impression of being newlyweds who are madly in love, unable to keep their hands off the other: Tony has his buried in his pockets and mine are clutching my purse. That's obviously where the name clutch purse comes from.

After Tony closed the door behind us, we both stand in the middle of the room, indecisive about what to do or say next. Tony pulls off his dinner jacket, loosens his bowtie and opens the uppermost button of his dress shirt. I swallow. The imagination of Tony undressing more pieces of clothes lets my heartbeat accelerate. I'm turned on and tensed up at the same time.

I look at the pink rose in my hand. It's gone slightly limp, its petals and leaves have started to wither already. I want to cry. The tender flower seems like a symbol of our 'marriage': it's beautiful but doomed to die away soon. I put the rose in a glass of water to slow down the withering process, I want to keep it alive as long as possible. If it only were as easy to keep our little game going. Tomorrow, we will be leaving St. Louis and once we're home we're back to our real marital status...which is not married, not even in a romantic relationship. We're single.

I realize Tony isn't prepared to call it a night either when he asks me, "What about a night cap, Angela?" He pulls a bottle of champagne out of a cooler. "Look what we've got here! With compliments from the Management," he reads out the little card attached. "Want a glass?"

"Why not?" I answer, although I already had two glasses of wine. Too much alcohol isn't good for me, I tend to lose control and I'm not sure whether I want to lose control tonight.

I collapse onto the couch, pull off my high heels, and start kneading my feet. I love wearing pumps, they're elegant and make my legs look best, but it's also torture. Especially at an evening with a lot of dancing. 'Beauty knows no pain', well, it sure does know, but I wanted to be beautiful tonight. And if I interpret the way Tony looked at me the entire evening, I believe in his eyes I was beautiful. He also told me, of course. I love it when he's saying it twice. But by now, the yearning of my feet for getting out of these shoes is bigger than my wish to be beautiful for Tony.

"You look like you could use a massage." He puts my feet in his lap without waiting for my answer. I close my eyes and simply enjoy the sensation. He has magic fingers. He knows exactly which trigger points to press and what intensity to apply. I start relaxing right away. I lay back and can't keep my thoughts from trailing off. What if those fingers touched other sensitive spots of my body? If he's already so skillful with a foot massage, what are his skills with other body parts? I hear myself moan in delight and can't tell whether it's because of the massage or my sensual fantasies.

"You like?"

"Mmmm."

He massages a bit longer, moving to my calves, and I wished he'd travel further up to my thighs, but then he puts my feet back to the ground. "Let me get the champagne."

He pours two glasses, hands me one, then we clink. There are no words spoken, we only exchange an intense look. 'Kiss me,' I think but doesn't dare to say out loud. Maybe I can make him read my eyes, but my romantic hopes are shattered when instead of leaning in Tony jumps off the sofa all of a sudden. Just now, he has looked at me as if he wants to eat me up, and a second later, he destroys the moment. I'm confused and disappointed. But of course, I have an idea what his reaction is all about.

"Tony," I start, "uh...since we're not really a couple...I mean...how shall we proceed?...Changing into our PJ's and," I clear my throat, "sleeping?"

"What about you change in the bathroom and I out here?"

He seems to be relieved to be able to talk about these rather harmless measures. Where each one of us is going to sleep is a much more pressing question, but I only say, "Okay."

I grab my nightwear and am painfully reminded that I packed a very old, very silly, and very short nightshirt. It's something like a long, baggy T-shirt which covers not more than my behind and has a cow imprinted at the front saying 'I am moooody in the morning', which I am not as a matter-of-fact since Tony lives with me. Getting up in the morning has lost its terror since I know that Tony is waiting for me in the kitchen with a cup of freshly brewed coffee, a glass of orange juice, and most of all his 'Good Morning, Angela!' I've become so accustomed to.

Had I known that I was about to share a hotel suite with him, I would've packed something else. Definitely! This shirt is comfy, but not something you want to be seen in by others, let alone by the man you want to beguile. But I can't change that anymore. The moo-cow-shirt has to do.

I can't believe he grins when I step out of the bathroom. He's staring at me. I bet it's because he thinks that this is an inappropriate piece for a woman over thirty to wear. I feel the urge to defend myself. "You didn't tell me we would be playing husband and wife! I thought I had a nice little hotel room to myself and could wear this in privacy!"

"It's okay, Angela, I like that shirt. But," he's still grinning, "you aren't moody in the morning. Not at all!"

"I don't know what made me buy this silly thing."

"Maybe the fact that deep inside there's this little girl in you," he rather states than asks.

"Little girl?"

"Yeah, Angela. You're so mature and on-top-of-things as a business executive, but as a private person you're rather shy and often insecure."

"Not very flattering," I reply a little embarrassed. I want him to see me as a desirable woman, not as a shy little girl.

"Oh no! I mean that in a positive sense! You awaken the protective instinct in a man." He comes closer until he stands right in front of me. He puts a strand of hair behind my ear. "That's very," he brushes a butterfly kiss on my cheek, "appealing."

"Uh, well...if you say so."

The tension between us soars. The situation is getting precarious, I mean I'm practically naked in my panties and this ridiculous nightshirt. If we start to kiss I might end up wanting to consummate our non-existent marriage. And I'm not sure whether it would be such a good idea, so I break the moment with turning away.

"Tony," I start.

"Yes, Angela?"

"This whole game of pretending to be newlyweds has been a lot of fun, and I enjoyed it...very much. The kissing in particular. But it will come to a close tomorrow when we have to fly back. When we get home, we have to continue with our lives and I'm afraid that if we...I mean, if we go all the way, it's going to be very difficult to do that. We can take a step back from having kissed, but taking a step back from having...uh, from having had sex...won't be that easy, if possible at all."

Tony's facial features change. He's looking at me like a wounded puppy now. I'm not sure whether he's really been up to taking me to bed and feels rejected now or whether I simply brought him back to reality. And the reality is that we're not a couple.

"If we go all the way tonight, it'd complicate everything! It'd put our family at stake, and maybe even our friendship. And I'm not sure I want to take that risk," I tell him. "I'm sorry."

He inhales deeply and rakes his fingers through his thick black hair. If I only knew what's going on behind his forehead now. There is something going on, I can almost see the flurry of thoughts upsetting him. I take it he's weighing the pros and cons and part of me wishes he'd vote for throwing all the misgivings overboard and just delves with me into romance. But then his reasonable, responsible self also gains the upper hand like mine had a few minutes ago.

"There's nothing to apologize for. You're right with everything you said, Angela. I feel exactly the same way. It seems that I forgot for a second that we're not really married," he says with a bashful grin.

Darn! Why for heaven's sake do we have to be so reasonable? So commonsense and rational? Why don't we let our hearts take command over our brains? I wished I could but, of course, I chime in, "So are we in agreement about our divorce tomorrow?"

"We are."

We shake on it like we did when we 'got married' yesterday. Only that we aren't equally playful about it. But I know it's for the better. What's one night of passion compared to a lifetime of friendship?

It is a wonderful friendship. It's so profound and solid as a rock. I don't want to lose that friendship, and neither does Tony. I gaze at the rose he gave me earlier. It's still in the little vase I put it in, spreading its scent all over the room; one single flower indulging the senses that much. I won't take it with me tomorrow. It belongs here, in this room. And when we leave in the morning, after having played our roles one last time at the breakfast table, it will stay here as a holdover of what was between Tony and me this weekend.

With my concerns about what it could possibly mean for us if we stopped being platonic, I brought our fictious marital relationship back to what it usually is: one between friends. Tony and I are equally good at that, we've already performed similar maneuvers many times. Now that I have my emotions back under control, I can't help being pragmatic again, because we still need to figure out where each of us is going to sleep tonight.

"In the light of our upcoming 'breakup', don't you think we can share the bed tonight? As friends?" I ask timidly.

Just as I expected, Tony stares at me and swallows.

"Oh, come on, Tony! We're adults! We can tame our instincts, can't we?"

"I don't know..."

"Just have a look at the sofa! It's so small! You'd be very uncomfortable. Unless you prefer to share a room with Butthead again."

"No way! He snores like a lumberjack!"

I smile to myself. "It's such a big bed. We might not even touch each other throughout the entire night. It must be a double or triple king size." Then I wonder, "Don't they want honeymooners to cuddle?"

Tony clears his throat, "I think they want to give honeymooners space to...uhm, experiment."

"Oh!" I blush. How incredibly stupid of me! Like a mousy wallflower who doesn't know anything about sex.

"Ahhh, there it is!" Tony happily exclaims to my complete surprise.

"What?"

"The innocent little girl." He grins.

"The naïve little girl, you mean."

"No, the cute and enchanting little girl," he says so tenderly that I instantly regret what I said earlier about not going all the way. Maybe this is the one and only chance to get him make love to me. Maybe we'll never get to a point again where having sex seems both so inescapable and natural like it does now. Every person we talked to the last two days expects we're having it anyway; and that includes Mother, of course! I can practically hear her whisper into my ear, 'Go for it, Angela! Do yourself a favor and let that guard down!' And it is crumbling, piece by piece. If Tony looks at me like this a bit longer, I'll tell him I don't care about tomorrow but only about the here and now. But this time Tony's the master of the situation, just like I was a moment ago. This time, he breaks the spell with turning away.

Thank God he broke it! I was up to making something I'd definitely regret tomorrow morning because it would challenge everything we so carefully built for the last couple years. And it's not only us and our friendship we have to think of but the kids and Mother as well. Our whole family structure depends on Tony and me. If we can't get along with each other anymore - because of a broken romance or a single night we cannot undo - our family falls apart, and we cannot let that happen.

Conviction is settling in, the conviction that I made the right choice with not pursuing things tonight. I might have been able to coax Tony to make love to me tonight, and it would've been a wonderful experience for sure, but tomorrow morning everything would be different, and things are good the way they are. Still, I can't help feeling like a martyr, sacrificing my personal fulfillment to a higher goal. Not that preserving our family doesn't give me fulfillment but I am also a woman who pines to be truly loved. And Tony is the man I want to truly love me.

I look at him as he's bustling about the room, a bit headless as it seems, gathering what he needs in the bathroom. What does he want? Does he want to love me and only doesn't dare? Or is he relieved he didn't have to reject me and tell me that he'll never feel more for me than friendship? But friends don't kiss like we kissed! Friends would fake kisses in a situation like this, but we haven't faked. Those kisses were real!

Maybe we just have to give it some more time, give _us_ more time; until Tony has graduated, until the kids have moved out, or Mother has grown up. The latter is never going to happen, I'm afraid.

Without looking at me or uttering another word, Tony walks off to the bathroom. I don't know what to do now all by myself, so I decide to go to bed. For a moment, I don't know which side to choose. As a married woman, I used to lie at the left side, so it'll be the left side tonight, too. I plump my pillow up and crawl under the blanket. It's only one blanket, that could be a problem. I don't know what will happen if our bare legs touch. He probably brought some long pajama bottoms. I hope he brought some long pajama bottoms.

Five minutes later, Tony comes out of the bathroom in a pair of boxers and a plain white tee. So much for my hopes. At the foot of the bed he says, "This used to be my side."

"Oh, do you want me to move over?"

"Nope, it's perfectly alright." He comes into bed and fidgets around a bit until we lie next to each other like two knives in a drawer - absolutely parallel, not even near to touching each other. He crosses his arms behind his head. "This is nice. Much better than Butthead's sofa."

We both stare at the ceiling for some time, afraid to move or even blink. When my lids eventually get so heavy that I can't keep my eyes open much longer, Tony astounds me. "Angela? Do you think we're mature enough and able to tame our instincts for me to take you in my arm?"

"Uh...yes," I reply although I'm not sure.

He spreads his left arm out, I put my head on the crook of his shoulder and he puts it around me. I am little insecure at first, but then I start to relax. This feels so natural and so right.

"Good night, Tony," I whisper.

"Good night, Angela," he whispers back.

I close my eyes and am on my way to dreamland in an instant.


	5. Reality

**Reality**

"Please make sure your tables are in an upright position and your seatbelts are securely fastened," the purser instructs us.

Tony and I are on a plane from St. Louis back to New York. The descent has just begun.

I don't really have a fear of flying, but I've always been uncomfortable while preparing to land. The growing air pressure on my eardrums reminds me of the height we're descending from and suffering from a fear of heights doesn't help. Tony knows about this, of course; he knows a lot about me. We've been on several flights together, so he takes my hand and squeezes it gently. I throw him a smile.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We'll be reaching our final destination in about 15 minutes. Enjoy the rest of your flight with us."

15 minutes. Only 15 more minutes, then our wonderful weekend will have come to its inevitable end. I close my eyes and sigh. Tony misinterprets my condition and tries so chase my anxieties away.

"Angela, you know that the airplane is the safest means of transportation, don't you?"

"My brain knows, only my pulse doesn't! But I was sighing for some other reason actually."

"Are you going to tell me?"

Yes, I'd like to tell him. I'd like to tell him everything: from the joyful moment I woke up this morning, feeling his warmth under the blanket we shared for the night, through listening to his teammates' annoying ambiguous remarks at the breakfast table about honeymoon bliss, up to the time we boarded this plane which made me feel like going to the dentist - I know I have to go, but I'd rather don't want to. I'd like to tell him how much I enjoyed this weekend, how natural it seemed to me to play his wife. And I want him know how much I liked being kissed, but I guess he noticed that anyway because of the way I kissed him back.

I can't put all of this that plainly, though. I talked plainly last night, when I told him I was afraid that if we slept with each other we'd have to redefine the base of the Micelli-Bower family structure which has been our platonic friendship for all these years. Whether romance would suit as an equally solid base is yet unproven. I'm facing a dilemma here: on the one hand, a romantic attachment seems so worth striving for, and on the other, I wouldn't be able to enjoy it one bit if it harmed our family.

The rose comes back to my mind, the way it looked this morning: it had wilted throughout the night and lost some of its petals. Its sweet scent, which filled the entire room last night, had completely vanished. If that wasn't a clear sign that what we had during this weekend - whatever it was - was supposed to be short-living from the start and was over and done with now. For a fleeting moment, I was tempted to take the flower with me to keep it as a memory, but I was afraid that it might be too painful to look at if Tony and I never moved forward with our relationship.

So? What can I tell him? That I love him? That I would've liked to go to bed with him? That I don't wish for anything more but to be with him?

No way.

It would contradict everything I said last night. And I meant what I said. It's only that my brain and my heart are not of the same opinion. But first and foremost I'm a rational, reasonable person and a master of self-control. I can manage as long as I have him in my life and as long as there is this silver lining somewhere on the horizon that we might be together some day. I can wait, I am also a very patient person when it comes to love. As long as Tony doesn't start dating other women, I will be okay.

Still, I want him to know what I'm feeling right now, even if I can't bring myself to putting it plainly.

"I'm a bit sad that we'll be back home soon. I'm looking forward to seeing the kids and Mother, but..."

"Our little game will be over," Tony completes my sentence.

"Right."

"I'm not too thrilled about it either, Angela. I enjoyed it."

He looks at me and his dark eyes mesmerize me. I'm sure he can read in mine what I'm reading in his: affection and sympathy, but also a great deal of regretfulness.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." I wonder what.

"Do you think..." He bites his lower lip; he obviously doesn't know how to put the words right. "Do you think..."

"Yes, Tony?"

He averts his eyes unable to look at me asking what he's about to ask. "Do you think...we will ever go all the way? I mean, some day?"

Good heavens, he's as weak-minded as I am! He needs the silver lining just like I do.

"We might."

Tony still isn't able to look into my eyes. He's exploring the back of his hands as if he's never seen them before. "Can you really imagine going to bed with your housekeeper, Angela?"

I cringe at the disbelief in his voice. It hurts me, for I've told him many times how much I appreciate him as a person. When will he understand that I stopped seeing my housekeeper in him a long time ago?

"No, of course not!" I say, knowing that he might get this wrong, but I would never go to bed with one of my employees. "But I can imagine going to bed with my boyfriend who happened to be my housekeeper in a previous life," I say staring a hole into the back of the seat in front of me.

He nods, then says, "I can imagine going to bed with my girlfriend who happened to be my boss, too."

Now I'm the one nodding. "Oh, good," I breathe.

I'm relieved and thrilled. It's the first time Tony spoke about me as his potential girlfriend. I would love to ask him about whether he could also imagine marrying his former boss, but I don't dare. There will be a time we talk about it, I'm sure. Patience is the key, I mustn't push things.

"Yeah, good," Tony mumbles.

Then he puts his hand under my chin, turns my head toward him and kisses me once more. It's a kiss like a promise. It's so full of hope and confidence that my heart leaps for joy. How is it possible to say so much with a kiss? He isn't able to say out loud what he's feeling, but he kisses me like this. What am I supposed to make of that? Well, at least it shows me he's not indifferent to what will become of us, and that is all I need for now.

"Oops," slips out of my mouth unintentionally, "my ear has popped."

I shrug, we laugh shortly, then stare at each other for the longest time. It's one of these exceptional, all-pervasive looks we share once in a while. A look so encouraging and scary all at once. Time seems to stand still when we gaze at each other like this. Nothing and no one else is important except the two of us at this particular moment. It lasts as long until one of us isn't able to bear the tension anymore and either looks away or says something stupid, like 'I have to do the laundry' or 'There's a campaign draft waiting to be finished'. But this gaze right now seems to last forever, I simply can't tear my eyes away from his. Maybe because there is no excuse for me to make an escape; we're in an airplane, no chance to get anywhere except the washroom, and I've been there ten minutes ago. Tony's warming glance so affectionate and reassuring makes me want to look at him indefinitely.

Suddenly, the plane touches the ground and we're pushed forward in our seats when the captain applies the brakes. We're back on earth, back in our real lives. The moment I dreaded for the last 48 hours has finally come. Game over! No more Mr. and Mrs. Micelli - husband and wife, but Tony and Angela - housekeeper and boss. No more kissing, no more flirting, no more gazing at each other. The everyday life has got us again. I feel like I want to cry.

But then I remind myself of how lucky I am to have a man like Tony in my life. And I do have him in my life. Romance might be out there somewhere on the road for us. We simply have to take the right path, and I'm utterly convinced that we took the right path last night. 'Good things are worth the wait', another one of these annoying proverbs which are so applicable to our situation. I'll be patient and wait until the time is right for us and pray to God that our paths will merge one day. A detour here and there would be okay, I only couldn't take a dead end or if Tony's path led him to another woman.

On our way out, the flight attendants smile at us. "I hope you and your wife enjoyed the flight, Sir," one of them says and to my surprise Tony replies, "My wife and I did." Then he takes my hand and we deboard.

A little while later, we claim our baggage and make it toward the arrivals hall where Mother awaits us. Tony, being a perfect gentleman, heaved our suitcases on a trolley he's now pushing toward the exit. Just as the automatic doors open up in front of us, he pulls me behind a wall. We look into each other's eyes and share one last all-consuming kiss.

"This has been a wonderful weekend, Angela. It turned out other than expected, but it was wonderful!"

"It has been wonderful, indeed."

"I wouldn't mind doing something like this again."

"Fake being a couple, you mean?"

"Yeah."

Fake. Well, better than nothing.

"I could also imagine..."

"Yes, Tony?" I whisper.

"I could also image doing this for real. One day."

"Not faking it?"

"Nope."

"I see."

"Can you?"

"Yes." With my shaking voice, I sound like a shy teenage girl who is courted by a beau for the very first time.

"Good. I'm glad we figured that out."

"So am I."

"So we just give it some more time, right?"

"Right."

He smiles and lets out the breath he's been holding as it seems. "Perfect! Ready to go?"

"Ready to go." I nod and link arms with him.

Yes, now that the deal is sealed, I'm ready to leave our make-believe weekend behind me and face reality.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** This is the end of part one. Stay tuned for Weekend Games II which will be written from Tony's perspective.


End file.
